


only fools rush in

by raregoose



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (very subtlely), 2010 Winter Olympics, 5+1 Things, Aged-Up Jeff, Eric is still Eric, Figure Skater! Jeff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Winter Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 18:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15201050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregoose/pseuds/raregoose
Summary: Eric arrives at the 2010 Winter Olympics single-mindedly: he wants a gold medal. What he isn't expecting is a figure skater with curly brown hair and an upturned nose. What he isn't expecting is flirting with said figure skater over rounds of pool and empty beer bottles. What he isn't expecting is to get attached.It's a pleasant surprise.





	only fools rush in

**Author's Note:**

> This pairing hasn't been relevant in so long but I still adore it. I was watching some Pyeongchang figure skating and some Russian who looks vaguely like Jeff skated to "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" and this fic materialized in my mind. I'm really taken by the idea of this pairing being very gentle and innocent with each other and wanting to take things very slow. While this fic stays firmly in its G rating, I still aged up Jeff to 19 (he was 17 in 2010) for everyone's personal sanity. I also made a mini-playlist for this fic because apparently I was feeling extremely extra, and I was really inspired by old romantic songs.
> 
> Blue Moon - Billie Holiday  
> Dream a Little Dream of Me - Doris Day  
> Unforgettable - Nat King Cole  
> I Can't Help Falling in Love With You - Elvis Presley  
> It's Now or Never - Elvis Presley
> 
> It wasn't planned this way, but I was 3/4 finished when I realized this could be a 5+1, so an alternate title of this fic is "5 times Jeff surprises Eric and 1 time Eric surprises Jeff". It's not formatted like a 5+1 but it's in there!

If Eric is going to be perfectly honest, he’s a little surprised when he’s named to the Olympic team for Vancouver. He’s been injured, and there’s always so much talent competing for spots on Team Canada. But, he’ll take it; it’s certainly an honor, if also a surprise.

He’s named captain of the Canes in January and is in Vancouver the next month. It’s a pretty good start to his decade. He knows most of the guys on the hockey team from either the summer camp or just simply from meeting them over the years in the NHL, and he gets to meet the others before the opening ceremonies, everyone mingling and exchanging names and discussing league happenings.

They’ve already been lectured about STDs and handed out condoms, but Eric just pocketed his without thinking much about it; he didn’t come here to hook up with a random curler or skiier that he’d never see again. It isn’t stopping him from enjoying the view, though, walking around the village with a few other hockey players and eyeing all the other young hot athletes in the best shape of their lives.

He doesn’t remember most of the people he meets in the village over the first few days. There’s so many names so fast, and when they walk out in the opening ceremony to all of Vancouver cheering for them, Eric is so disoriented that he can only blink and watch everyone else around him socialize and laugh and take photos of the crowds.

Jarome Iginla ropes him into a conversation halfway through the ceremony, throwing an arm over his shoulder and laughing, “right, Staalsy?”, giving Eric no choice but to laugh and nod and start paying attention.

The other people in the conversation are a curler whose name he doesn’t catch even after asking for them to repeat it, and a kid who Eric swears is probably missing high school classes to be here.

“What event are you in?” he asks the kid, hoping to eke a name out of the conversation.

“I’m a figure skater,” he says. He’s got pink cheeks, hair that curls over his ears, and a tiny pert nose.

“I’m on the hockey team,” Eric replies, sticking out a hand. “My name’s Eric Staal.”

The kid’s cheeks turn a darker shade of pink and he shakes Eric’s hand hesitantly. “I, uh, know.” he says, not meeting Eric’s gaze. “My name’s Jeff. Jeff Skinner.”

Eric smiles at him. “Where are you from?” He’s on Team Canada so probably not a Canes fan, but hey, who knows?

“Near Toronto,” Jeff replies. “Sorry, I’m a Leafs fan.” He smiles, and he’s got these charmingly deep dimples. It’s an infectious smile, and Eric is grinning back in spite of himself.

“Ah, well,” he responds, leaning back in his chair. “If you want to start watching a team that’s not a perennial disappointment, the Canes are always there.” Jeff rolls his eyes but he’s smiling and Eric is smiling back.

They melt back into the conversation with Jarome and the curler after that, and Jeff is clearly more starstruck around Jarome than Eric (who wouldn’t be), and it sort of makes the overwhelming opening ceremonies a little more bearable.

The throngs of people are intense and the four of them lose each other soon after. Jarome leaves to go talk to someone he recognizes from 2006 and Sidney Crosby is chirping Jordy and Eric can’t help but get in on that, laughing with Crosby about Jordy’s idiosyncrasies as they make their way back to the village for the night.

Hockey consumes the next few days, practice and the beginning of prelims, and Eric doesn’t even think much of the cute figure skater he met at the opening ceremonies.

When they have a few days off, Eric gets antsy, not sure what to do with his time when they don’t have games. He watches other events, talks to his brothers, and explores the village.

The village is stocked with anything a young athlete might ever need, at all hours of the day. He discovers that the food is 24/7 when he’s up at 3 A.M. for no particular reason at all and is craving a slice of pizza.

He’s nursing a ginger ale and the single slice of pizza he’s allowed himself (he still has to go back to North Carolina, after all) when a warm body slips into the stool next to him at the counter. Eric peers over to see a plate of french fries and a Coke before double taking and realizing that the person attached to the food is cute figure skater Jeff Skinner.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.” He smiles in spite of himself. Jeff is small and his hair curls at the ends and his nose is cuter than it has any right to be.

“Yeah,” Jeff replies. He pops a french fry into his mouth and smiles.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” Eric leans over to bump Jeff’s shoulder with his own but stops himself. Jeff is clearly young, like, possibly high school young, and Eric is in no rush to rob any cradles.

“Yeah,” Jeff replies easily, shrugging. “I can never sleep before a big skate.” Eric chuckles softly.

“And this is probably the biggest skate of your life, eh?” Jeff nods. “The biggest skate in your, uh, how many years on Earth?” It’s perhaps not the smoothest way to ask Jeff how old he is, but better than not knowing.

Jeff turns to him and he’s got a look in his eyes that tells Eric that Jeff knows his angle.

“I’m nineteen,” Jeff says with an eyebrow cocked up, smirking but not chirping Eric for trying to figure out if he’s jailbait. “And yeah, nothing’s bigger than the Olympics, right? A gold medal is everyone’s dream growing up.”

“Yeah,” Eric replies, a little breathless, imagining a gold medal weighing around his neck.

“I used to want to win a Stanley Cup more than a gold,” Jeff says after slowly chewing on a french fry.

“Yeah, you and every other Canadian kid,” Eric laughs, reaching over to steal a french fry.

“Really, though!” Jeff laughs, showing off those dimples again. He pushes at Eric’s arm to deter him from taking the fry but clearly isn’t too bothered, and lets him escape with it. Eric pops it into his mouth and chews. “I played hockey until I was 13 or so, but it looked like figure skating was gonna work out, so I quit. I coulda been great, y’know!”

“There’s a Stanley Cup with your name on it in some alternate universe, I’m sure,” Eric replies. Jeff sighs dreamily, dropping his chin into his hand and turning to look at Eric, really look at him, his eyes crinkling in the corners with his smile.

“Can you even imagine?”

“I can, actually.” It’s not meant to come out as sarcastic as it does, but he rolls with it when Jeff chokes out a surprised laugh. “‘Cause, y’know, there’s a Stanley Cup with my name on it in _this_ universe.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, and watches Jeff shake his head through the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re a big shot.”

“Eh, I don’t know how much of a big shot I am anymore. Jordan’s the star in the family right now. I’m the old guy. They probably actually meant Jordan when they put a Staal on the roster and they just fucked up and got the wrong one.” Eric laughs through it, but it’s kind of true. He’s 25, but even now Jordan’s stealing the spotlight at only 21.

“I’m the second youngest of six kids,” Jeff says, and takes a long sip of his Coke. “I’m with you on the big family blues.”

“Six?” Eric whistles lowly. Three siblings is enough for him, thanks.

“Four sisters, one brother,” Jeff nods, “but that’s probably not as bad as three brothers.”

“Yeah, maybe not.”

They’re distracted for a moment by someone Eric doesn’t recognize turning on the TV on the other side of the lounge. There’s hockey reruns on, maybe Finland and Germany, but it’s hard to tell.

“Are you playing tomorrow?” Jeff asks, cocking his head over to the TV.

“No, not until day after tomorrow,” Eric says. “It’s weird having so many days off in a row. You get kinda used to the grind.” Jeff just nods at that. “You said you’re skating tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve got my short program.”

“You should probably get some sleep,” Eric says, because he can’t help but act like a big brother, even when he’s attempting to flirt with an attractive Olympic athlete.

“I’ll be fine, my event’s in the afternoon,” Jeff waves him off. “And what about you, old man? Shouldn’t you be in bed by 9 P.M.?” There’s a challenging glint in Jeff’s eye, and Eric can’t help but lean into it, getting a bit into Jeff’s space.

“They actually only let me out of the old person’s home to come here, so I’m trying to make the most of it. Anyway, I don’t think you of all people should be talking about 9 P.M. bedtimes. Are you sure your babysitter isn’t worried sick looking for you right now?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jeff says, and he’s touching Eric’s shoulder again, smacking him but allowing his hand to linger for a moment.

Eric keeps himself from leaning into it but he doesn’t pull away, either. Jeff’s hand falls to his side and he smiles into his Coke. Eric feels a rush of affection, and for a crazy moment he wants to close the space between them and kiss Jeff right there at the counter in the middle of the night, where the lights in the lounge are down low and the only other sound besides their laughs is the low hum of the TV.

Jeff is looking at up at him through his lashes with his pink lips just slightly parted. They’re turned in their stools, facing each other and knees knocking. Eric remembers a moment years ago when he was drunk off his mind and half on top of a cute blonde guy in a bar in Toronto and Cam grabbed his elbow, reminding him that there’s someone with a camera phone and loose lips in every room.

Eric takes a deep breath and leans back. He downs the rest of his ginger ale and forces himself to get up, even though every fiber of his being is telling him _stay_.

“Don’t stay up too late, kid. I wanna see you do well tomorrow.” Eric ruffles Jeff’s hair, and it’s a gamble because it seems paternalistic and little condescending, but Jeff flushes and nods.

“Good night, Eric,” Jeff calls after him.

Eric turns over his shoulder and waves. “Good night, Jeff.”

*

Eric finds the figure skating schedule the next morning and traces his finger down it until he sees _Figure Skating, Short Program_ and a time slot. He practices with the team, then rushes back to the village to shower and watch Jeff skate.

He slips into a seat and no one recognizes him, which is a relief. 

The skaters are warming up and he can’t find Jeff and Eric realizes that he is way out of his depth. He really doesn’t know anything about figure skating, or what tricks they do, or what is good versus bad. He knows that figure skates are different from hockey skates and that they skate twice during competition and that’s pretty much it.

He gets into it all the same. He can’t tell good technique from bad to save his life, but it’s the same as any sport, really; he cheers when a skater jumps or spins and “awws” with the crowd when they fall.

He’s so caught up in the fervor of the crowd that it takes him a moment to register Jeff being announced over the loudspeaker. He’s distracted by the sudden and intense screaming from a few girls next to him. They’ve got a Canadian flag and they’re on their feet for Jeff, cheering the loudest they have all afternoon.

Eric amusedly realizes that Jeff seems to have a lot of young women in his fanbase. Even as Jeff skates out, before his routine even begins, Eric can understand why.

Jeff’s stage presence is magnetic. He’s flashing his perfect teeth to the crowd through his dimpled smile. He’s standing at center ice, not even skating yet, and he has the entire crowd wrapped around his little finger. Eric also can’t help but notice how Jeff’s outfit clings to every curve and angle of his body, his pants hugging from his hips to his calves and his shirt clinging to him like it was painted on, a deep v neck cut into it.

Eric grins from ear to ear as Jeff starts his routine. He has no idea if his technique is any good, but he knows as soon as Jeff starts that he’s something special. 

Jeff reaches out, pulls the audience in, and doesn’t let them go. Eric is smiling and clapping and cheering, and while he doesn’t cry, he’s pretty sure at least one of the girls next to him does.

Jeff lands every jump and doesn’t falter on a single spin. When he finishes, laughing in joy at the center of the ice, his cheeks are pink and his hair has floated away from its carefully coiffed do into tiny, freely bouncing curls.

Eric watches the numbers blink up onto the big screen; Jeff’s name slides into 4th place in the rankings. The screen shows Jeff hugging someone (his coach, or his mom maybe), and the arena roars.

There are a few skaters left, some big names that even Eric recognizes, and Jeff’s name slips down to the seventh position. But still, top ten, that’s nothing to sneeze at.

On his way out Eric catches a glimpse of a few signs people have made for Jeff, and can’t help but laugh. 

*

They have a game the next day, but Eric spends a good amount of the night playing pool and reminiscing about the ‘03 draft with Fleury, drinking beer and not keeping score.

They’re halfway into maybe their third game when Crosby shows up and the two of them team up on Eric, and since Crosby is playing, they’re keeping score now. It really isn’t fair because Crosby and Fleury have known each other for 6 years and Eric is pretty sure they have some sort of telepathic connection, which shouldn’t really matter when it comes to pool, but Eric has to tell himself _something_ to make himself feel better.

“Suck my dick, Staalsy!” Fleury giggles as he sinks another one. Eric sighs and shakes his head, but when he goes to grab his cue where it’s leaning against his wall, Jeff is there, holding the cue and smiling.

“Need a little help?” he asks, nodding toward the table.

“I’ll take all the help you can give me,” Eric breathes, and does Jeff’s smile ever widen at that.

Jeff saunters to the table and bends over it to line up his shot; Eric does his best to not check out Jeff’s ass. 

Jeff sinks the shot, then stands upright, looks over his shoulder at Eric, and cocks his head in a “c’mere” gesture. Eric is sweating. He walks back to the table and finishes his beer.

“Introduce us to your friend, Staalsy,” Fleury says, and Eric has heard enough stories from Jordy to know that there is no good way that this night ends.

“Uh, yeah, this is Jeff, he’s on Team Canada-”

“Figure skating,” Jeff supplies.

“-we met at opening ceremonies. And Jeff, you might know Marc-Andre Fleury and Sidney Crosby, they’re on the hockey team with me.” Jeff nods at them.

“What’s the age requirement for figure skating again?” Fleury asks, which earns him a stifled chortle from Crosby and a withering look from Eric.

“Ha, ha,” Jeff says dryly, sticking out his tongue. “I’ll have you know that I’m nineteen. And, uh, remind me, is there an age requirement for riding the bench to an Olympic medal?” Jeff shoots back to Fleury.

Fleury laughs, really laughs at it, even though Eric and Crosby are exchanging a shocked look.

“Oh, you’re a feisty little son of a bitch, eh? I like him, Staalsy. Just wait a few years before you tell your parents.” Fleury laughs and spins his cue in his palm and Eric wants to melt into the floor out of embarrassment.

He looks at Jeff, who is red all the way down his neck, and Jeff just says, “well then. Your shot, Eric.” Their hands brush when Eric passes off the cue, and Eric is really going to need another beer.

Eric misses his shot terrifically because his hands are shaking and he can feel Jeff’s eyes on him. He fumbles with and nearly drops the cue after, then says, as casually as he can muster, “I’m getting another beer, anyone want one?”

He grabs two because Crosby had nodded while Fleury and Jeff just shook their heads. 

“I saw you skate today.” Fleury and Crosby are conspiring, lining up their shot, and Eric and Jeff are leaning against the wall. Eric cracks open his beer.

“No way,” Jeff replies, lighting up. “You came?”

Eric is sure that Jeff didn’t mean any innuendo, but his voice gets stuck high in his throat anyway as he responds, “uh-huh”. He takes a sip of beer. “You’ve got quite the young female fanbase, I will say.”

Jeff blushes again and grabs self-consciously at the back of his neck. 

“Yeah, uh, I can’t really help that.” He crinkles his nose. “It’s not _bad_ , it’s just a little, I don’t know,”

“Uncomfortable?” Eric offers. Jeff nods.

“Yeah. I mean, I think I’d appreciate it a bit more if I was actually interested in girls,” he shrugs, not even hesitating in telling Eric.

“It’s your turn, unless you want to forfeit,” Crosby butts in, and Jeff whips his head around to look at him.

“Oh, yeah, okay,” he says distractedly, grabbing the cue from Eric. 

Eric takes a long drink from his beer as Jeff leans over and lines up the shot. He’s squinting, pondering which ball has the clearest path to a pocket. Jeff breathes in, out, drains the ball, and stands up smiling. He picks up Eric’s beer off the table, takes a long sip, puts it down, and passes Eric the cue.

“Your shot,” he says, licking the corner of his mouth.

“I would’ve gotten you one for yourself if you’d asked,” Eric grumbles. Jeff just laughs.

“Shush, and get this one in, or I’ll drink the rest of it too.”

Eric sinks the shot but when he stands Jeff is sipping from his beer again anyway. He snatches it back and passes off the cue. When he sips from the beer, the rim is wet from Jeff’s mouth, and Eric tries really hard not to think about it too much.

With Jeff’s help, they start to catch up to Fleury and Crosby, who are just whispering to each other and giggling. Eric just hopes that they have the decency to not say anything to Jordy about his obvious and hopeless crush on a nineteen year old.

It’s Eric’s turn when they’re one shot away from tying the game. There’s a couple empty beer bottles on the floor and one half-empty bottle in Jeff’s hand. Eric circles the table, looking for the perfect angle. Jeff is watching him with dark eyes, something so different from the bright joy during his short program, something much more focused and considering.

Eric is nervous, but he understands. Nobody makes it to the Olympics without having the dedication to get what they want.

He lines his chosen shot up with care and sinks it. Jeff cheers, raising his hands and rushing to Eric to give him a high-five; the beer sloshes over onto his fingers but he just passes the bottle off to Eric and licks it off.

“Alright, let’s fuckin’ go here, Flower, okay?” Crosby says, because he’s the one who has problems with losing, and Eric and Jeff make a pretty good team. 

The game is tight from there, trading shots, until it’s just the 8 ball. Eric isn’t drunk, but he’s certainly a little tipsy, tipsy enough that he can’t sink the 8 ball for the life of him and can’t seem to take a step backward when Jeff turns his body toward Eric and looks up at him with a smile. 

Crosby misses another shot and then it’s Jeff’s turn.

“Alright, let’s just get this over with,” he says, pointing at the far pocket. “This pocket. I know you old men have a game tomorrow and you gotta get your creaky asses into bed, so I might as well just wrap it up.”

“Show us what you got, jailbait,” Fleury crows. Jeff flips him off and makes the shot without missing a beat.

“ _Yes!_ ” Eric yells, pumping a fist and reaching out to high-five Jeff. Jeff is laughing and his hand is sweaty against Eric’s.

“Best 2 out of 3?” Crosby is already saying, but Fleury just gets a fistful of his shirt and pulls him off.

“Winners have to clean up!”

“Interesting guy,” Jeff says, putting the cues on the rack and picking up the discarded beer bottles. Eric scoffs.

“Oh, you bet. You wouldn’t believe the stories Jordy’s told me.”

“Yeah? Try me. I’ve got four sisters, remember? I’ve heard more stories about idiot guys than I can count.” Jeff steps into Eric’s space and takes the final beer bottle from him.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Eric says through a smile. He trails Jeff to the recycling while regaling him with a particular funny story from Jordy’s rookie year. Jeff laughs at all the right moments and looks up at Eric through squinty eyes during his pauses.

It’s late and the stairwell is quiet as they walk up side by side. The space between them is charged and Eric finds himself hoping that Jeff will brush his arm by chance, the skin of their shoulders meeting, or Jeff will laugh on one of the landings because maybe he’s just too darn tipsy to walk up these stairs and then he’ll grab Eric’s arm to steady himself.

“When do you play tomorrow?” Jeff asks offhand as they turn onto their floor.

“3:15 puck drop, I think,” Eric replies.

“Oh, well, I’ll be there,” Jeff says, running a hand against the wall of Canada’s hall.

“Well hopefully we can get a win for you, then.” Eric isn’t even paying attention to the door numbers they’re passing, and can’t even quite recall what his room number is anyway. The faint buzz he was on is gently fading, but he still feels a little loose, a little bit like the real world is happening muffled, three steps behind him and Jeff. “When is your second skate?” he asks.

“Three days from now,” Jeff replies. “And then I’m all done. Insane.” Jeff flicks his eyes to his left and stops walking. He draws a key out of his pocket.

“It’s going too fast,” Eric agrees. “I wish I could, I don’t know, bottle it up or something, and save it.”

“Some moments are worth remembering.” Jeff is leaning against his door fiddling his key between his fingers. All Eric can bring himself to do is hum in agreement.

“I’m gonna go,” he says finally, jerking a thumb back, “sleep this off. Goodnight, Jeff.”

“Goodnight Eric,” Jeff says back softly, not calling after Eric’s retreating body tonight, because Eric has yet to get his legs to move.

He still doesn’t move. Suddenly he comes to himself, realizes he has a _game_ tomorrow, and his legs start moving ahead of his brain. “Goodnight,” he says again, stupidly, stumbling over himself.

Jeff laughs and turns to put his key in his lock while Eric goes to figure out where in the hell his room is.

*

Team Canada keeps winning. Eric isn’t going to complain. They’re doing well enough that Eric even entertains the thought, briefly, of even getting all the way to gold. The schedule picks up, and these might be the most important games Eric ever plays, possibly even more important than the Cup run.

A couple days pass and he doesn’t see Jeff; he’s sort of isolated with the hockey team most of the time and when he does see Jeff, he’s hanging out with who Eric can only guess are other figure skaters, and they only have a moment of eye contact and a wave before he disappears again.

At breakfast the third day after the pool game, Eric receives a series of increasingly hysterical texts from Jordy that are mostly misspellings of “nineteen” and a lot of question marks, so he sort of figures Fleury finally got around to telling him about their night.

He sits over his morning oatmeal and painstakingly types out a calm response telling Jordy to not believe everything _Marc-Andre Fleury_ , of all people, tells him. He’s got big hands and his phone is this tiny little thing with a screen he can barely read and buttons that are way too small for his thumbs, so making sure he clicks each button the right amount of times to get his desired letter is a bit of a chore.

His oatmeal is probably getting cold.

“What are you doing over there, writing a novel?” Eric looks up and Jeff is sitting across from him, chin resting in his hand.

“How do you always show up so silently?” he asks, nearly dropping his phone.

Jeff waves a hand. “Trade secrets. You’ll have to do some figure skating to learn our ways.”

“Yeah, I suppose so, considering that I think I have to kill Marc-Andre Fleury.” Eric rolls his eyes and sends the message to Jordy.

“Oh, boy. What’d he do now?”

“Y’know, the usual. Just running his mouth to my brother.” 

“Uh-oh,” Jeff says. “Is he telling him how shitty you are at pool?” Jeff’s mouth twists into a wry smile and Eric just splutters.

“I am _not_ shitty at pool!” he exclaims. He’s about to continue to protest when a guy who looks to be about Eric’s age sits himself next to Jeff with two muffins on a plate.

“You almost ready?” the second man asks, handing Jeff a muffin.

“Uh, yeah, what time i-oh shit, we’re running late,” Jeff says, looking at his watch. He stands up, peeling open the muffin wrapper. “Free skate’s today. I can’t believe it’s all over in a few hours.” Jeff shakes his head. Eric looks up at him and wishes he didn’t have to leave, his shaggy brown curls and upturned nose, his knowing gaze and smile.

“Well, good luck,” he manages. “We don’t play today, so I’ll try to come and watch.” Jeff’s eyes light up.

“I’ll look for you.” Jeff is _looking_ at Eric with those focused eyes and Eric can’t help but look down at his oatmeal, feeling heat creeping down the back of his neck. 

The second man, who must be another figure skater, looks at Jeff for a moment, parsing the situation, before he says, “Okay, c’mon man, we gotta go.”

Jeff looks over his shoulder at Eric as he walks away. 

Eric is holding his phone in a vice grip in his fist. A new message buzzes in from Jordy, and he flips the phone open to see it.

_no need to get so defensive. i think you should go for it. im just a little surprised is all, never saw you as the type to hook up at the olympics ;)_

Being enabled by his younger brother is the last thing Eric needs right now, but he also can’t bring himself to try to convince Jordy there’s nothing going on between him and a nineteen year old figure skater. He shuts his phone, picks up his spoon, and stirs his oatmeal. It’s cold, and Eric doesn’t feel like eating much anymore, anyway.

*

He tries and fails to avoid teammates as he leaves the village to go see the skating later that morning. Fleury and Getzlaf are eating breakfast in the lobby, and he’s so close to getting out without having to explain himself when Getzlaf calls out, “Hey! Staalsy! What’s up, bud?” Eric winces, then turns around to face them.

“Just heading out for a bit,” he settles on, shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to sound as casual as he can.

“Oh, yeah? Where to? Maybe we’ll tag along; we’re just finishing breakfast now,” Getzlaf replies. 

“Uh, hah, no, I don’t think you’re gonna want to,” Eric says. He scrunches his nose, knowing he’ll have to explain. “I’m just going to the free skate.”

“That actually sounds pretty fun, let me grab my ja-” Fleury grabs Getzlaf’s arm before he can stand and just slightly shakes his head.

“We’ll see you later, Staalsy, have fun,” he says, waving Eric off and slinging his arm around Getzlaf’s shoulder and whispering into his ear. Eric pretends not to notice or to know exactly what he’s telling Getzlaf because it’s less embarrassing that way.

He slips into the rink without being recognized again, and winds his way through the aisles to get to the best possible seat. He’s more nervous than he is before any hockey game, but he knows he shouldn’t be, because Jeff is _Jeff_ , and he’s got this.

Eric still doesn’t know much about figure skating, but he instinctively understands Jeff’s skate anyway. He’s transported back to late nights in cold arenas as a kid, eyes lingering on the figure skaters doing their warm-ups as he dragged his gear bag out to the minivan, the grace in their turns and such a simple elegance in every move that even the raising of an arm enraptured Eric. Watching Jeff feels right, feels like home, feels like early mornings on the backyard rink, the ice cut up beneath his feet.

It’s not so cold in the arena and Jeff is dressed skimpier than Eric ever was playing hockey, but when he hears the sound of Jeff’s skates against the ice, he can imagine Jeff spinning on the backyard rink, grabbing Eric’s hand and his hips to show him how to spin the right way, chirping him all day long about how hockey players are useless when trying to figure skate.

Enchanting, maybe, is the right word.

Jeff ends up in fourth place out of everyone for long program, shooting up the leaderboard to fifth place overall. He’s crying happy tears over the jumbotron, clutching his coach in a hug. Eric smiles and high-fives the people next to him, because it’s the Olympics and these are the moments they’re here for.

After the event finishes, Eric putters around the lobby, folding the corners of the program and hoping to bump into Jeff. He’s scuffing his shoes against the carpet, looking for a reason to stay, his hope fading fast.

Eric’s turned halfway to the exit when there’s a tap on his shoulder. He jumps in surprise.

“Hey, hockey player,” Jeff says behind him.

“Jesus Jeff, warn a guy!” He yelps, but he’s laughing and Jeff is too. Jeff is fresh from the shower, wet hair pushed back and curls starting to dry at the ends.

“C-Congrats!” he stammers out after realizing he’s just been staring for a few seconds. “You were great!”

“Thanks!” Jeff pushes back his hair and smiles.

“So, you heading back to the village now, or… ?” Eric scans the lobby; there doesn’t seem to be any sign of Jeff’s family or coach.

“Sorry,” Jeff says. “The team’s going out for food.” Eric’s face must fall, because Jeff quickly consoles him, “I’ll catch you later, though! Maybe we can take down some of your other teammates in pool tonight.” Jeff’s got a wicked look in his eye and Eric nods like his head is on a string.

He’s gotten kind of used to things being like that when Jeff is around.

“Catch ya later,” Jeff says, patting Eric’s shoulder and disappearing as silently as he arrived.

Eric turns to wave but Jeff is already gone. 

*

Eric is spanking Getzlaf at bubble hockey that night and pretending not to be looking out for Jeff, partly because he’s hoping to take him up on his offer for more pool, and partly because he’s getting sick of Jeff sneaking up on him all the time.

“I think it’s actually unhealthy for any human to be this good at bubble hockey, man,” Getzlaf says, shaking his head. Eric smiles.

“Oldest child syndrome, Getzy. I had to be the best at everything to keep everyone in their place.”

Getzlaf rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, okay Staalsy. I’m sure that’s why you’re the second best hockey player in the family.” Eric scoffs.

“Such recency bias,” he grumbles. He and Jordy have the same number of cups, thank you very much.

He turns his attention back to the bubble hockey at hand. Eric is single-minded when it comes to anything hockey, and he isn’t ashamed that it extends to hockey of bubble variety as well.

He cellies a little too hard after extending his commanding lead, spinning around in place, hands up, turning around and finding himself facing an amused Jeff. He drops his hands to his sides.

“Oh! Hey, Jeff.”

“Hey, Eric. Did you just win the bubble hockey gold medal?” He nods at Getzlaf, who’s standing with his arms crossed.

“This is only round robin,” Eric replies easily, willing the embarrassed flush in his cheeks to settle. “I’m not sure if Getzy here has what it takes to make it out of the group stage.”

“Shut the fuck up, Staalsy.” He’s looking between Eric and Jeff, trying to find the connection. Eric anticipates the question and opens his mouth to explain, but before he has the chance, Jeff steps up to the side of the bubble hockey dome, so close to Eric that their arms just barely brush, and sticks out his hand across the dome to Getzlaf.

“I’m Jeff Skinner. I’m on the figure skating team.” Getzlaf shakes his hand but he’s looking at Eric, slowly unraveling the connection and whatever Fleury had told him that morning in his head. “We met at opening ceremonies,” Jeff continues, cocking his head over at Eric, who smiles weakly.

“Uh-huh,” Getzlaf says, and Eric can’t parse from his contemplative gaze what, if anything, Fleury told him that morning when he kept Getzlaf from following him to Jeff’s program. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m not sure if you want to try taking this one on for me,” he says, nodding at Eric. “I’m just about finished, and I’ve got to call my fiancée at some point.”

“Yeah, I’ll give him a go,” Jeff replies. He ambles around the dome to face Eric, grinning devilishly. Getzlaf walks away and Eric somehow just feels more stressed. Jeff gives one of the handles a test spin. “So, you ready to take me on?”

“Alright.” Eric sets himself, feeling for the handles. “I won’t go easy on you.”

Jeff chuckles. “Bring it.”

They’re fairly evenly matched, and it’s a far more casual game than Eric had brought with Getzy.

“Are you hanging around for the rest of the games?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Jeff says. “I’ve gotta stick around to watch you guys bring home gold, don’t I?” He smiles at Eric. 

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself there,” he chides, although Canada has won their way to the semifinals and are only two more wins away from the gold.

“Oh, please,” Jeff says back, rolling his eyes and conceding a goal. “It’s _hockey_. And we’re _Team Canada_. And the games are in _Vancouver_. If you guys _don’t_ win, it’ll be some kind of sacrilege against the sport or something.”

“I’ll try to channel your optimism,” Eric laughs.

The lounge starts to empty out as they play, giggling and not as competitive as Eric normally is when it comes to bubble hockey.

“Ready?” he asks. “Trick shot, watch!” He flicks his wrist and sends the tiny puck against one of his own players, flipping it up into the air.

“Ohhh!” Jeff calls, leaning forward. He twiddles his own guys for a second before his face lights up. “Wait, okay, are you ready?” He muffles his mouth with one hand to sound like an old-timey radio announcer while he spins one of his players with the other. “And next up is a combination spin. Executed perfectly!”

Eric gives the skater a gentle round of applause. “Too bad he can’t do any jumps like you.”

“Ah, if only he were wearing real skates and not those wonky hockey ones. He’d be executing triples all over the place.” Jeff nods very seriously, and Eric can’t even find it in his heart to pretend to be offended at the hockey skate burn.

Eventually they tire of bubble hockey and sit at the food counter again, pressing their shoulders again. Eric isn’t hungry but Jeff is eating a burger against his best judgement.

“So what’s up for you now that you’re done?” Eric asks. He doesn’t know the ins and outs of the figure skating season, and he’s imagining his own completion of the Olympics in only a few days time, depending on whether they beat Slovakia. The Olympics have become their own sort of alternate reality, and Eric isn’t sure how he’s going to go back to the real world, how he could ever just pick up and fly back to North Carolina and be an NHLer again after experiencing these games.

“Well, World Championships, I suppose,” Jeff says with a shrug. “Then we start all over again. New season, new programs, new costumes-”

“I liked your costumes a lot,” Eric says thoughtlessly. Jeff turns a bright red and continues like Eric hadn’t said anything at all.

“It’s the same but different every year. What about you? Gonna go home and win a second Stanley Cup now that you’ve got Jordy breathing down your neck?” Eric laughs.

“Yup, just like every year. Tell the press that you’re gonna win the cup, but only one team can every year, then you go home and play golf and start all over again.” He hums, turning Jeff’s words over in his mind, realizing it’s the same for him. “It’s different, but the same every year.” He turns around and gives Jeff his words back. He doesn’t want things to be the same. Not after these weeks in Vancouver. He’s not sure he can go home to his empty apartment and pretend everything’s the same. He looks at Jeff.

Jeff’s watching him sadly like he understands. Like he also can’t imagine leaving the village and returning to Toronto empty-handed.

“Walk me back to my room?” is all he says, and Eric nods.

*

They’re not tipsy. Jeff doesn’t drag his hand sensually across the wall like he’s pretending it’s Eric’s skin. Eric doesn’t almost kiss Jeff at his threshold. Eric says goodnight and his voice hitches in his throat, but he doesn’t think of anything more scandalous than putting Jeff’s hand in his own, following him into the room, curling up next to him, and falling asleep.

They whisper goodbyes and Eric touches the wall next to the mounted number plate. He wonders if Jeff’s fingertips are rough and weathered like his own or smooth like the wall. He doesn’t know how much stress is placed on the fingertips while figure skating.

Eric goes to bed and doesn’t fall asleep for a long while. The air is cold. He’s two wins away from a dream, but he wants to stretch it out like the night he can’t sleep through.

*

They beat Slovakia and then it’s just America. It’s perfect, really, the fated meeting in the gold medal game on the same day as closing ceremonies. Eric is more nervous than he should be, considering how many big hockey games he’s played in his life. He’s been playing hockey for as long as he can remember, but nothing could possibly top this feeling, gold on the line on the biggest stage, while the Olympics are in his home country. It’s humbling. He knows they can’t lose.

“We won’t lose!” Niedermayer calls in the locker room. There are whoops in response, nervous energy buzzing between all the stalls.

They don’t lose. Eric could get old and lose all his hair and forget every other moment of his life, but he’ll never forget Crosby’s shout of “Iggy” across the ice, and the thundering of cheers from the stands filled to the brim with ecstatic Canadians.

When they put the gold medal around his neck, Eric stares up at the crowd, blinded, hoping for a glimpse of curly brown hair in the masses. He knows Jeff is out there, cheering for him and their country and their favorite pastime. He wonders if he’ll ever see Jeff again, if he’ll stick around for closing ceremonies, and if so, if they’ll manage to find each other in the throngs of drunk and happy Olympians. He wonders what he’ll do if he does see Jeff again, what he could possibly say and what he could possibly allow himself to leave unsaid, what he could do and what he’d allow himself to do.

The celebrations of the day continue to night as the sun slips below the horizon; Eric’s medal is pressed heavy against his sternum and he is pressed close to his teammates in the crowds at the closing ceremonies. They’re almost three hours into the ceremony, Alanis Morissette is singing, and Eric is pretending his feet don’t hurt and he doesn’t want to just go get blackout drunk with his teammates and find Jeff.

Jeff finds him first. There’s rustling around him, raised voices lifting barely over the din of Alanis. Eric turns to the source of the sound to see Jeff pushing through other Team Canada members. Eric is ready for him this time: when Jeff jumps to him, Eric catches and spins him in a hug, laughing in childish joy at the moment.

“Congrats!” Jeff yells directly in his ear. His voice still is quiet despite the yelling, muted by the sound of the concert. “What a game, eh?” Eric laughs and lets Jeff slide down his body to stand back on his own feet. He steps close into Jeff’s space and leans down to his ear, steadying himself on Jeff’s shoulder.

“Thanks!” he yells back. There’s a lull in the noise as Alanis finishes and they transition to Simple Plan’s song, so Eric steps back to take the sight of Jeff in. His hair is unkempt, fluffed out from his head, curls escaping. He’s red down his cheeks to his neck and his smile is turning Eric’s stomach over. “So this is it, eh? You heading home after this?” He asks, hoping Jeff doesn’t read too much into it but knowing the suggestion is there. It feels wrong; he has no intention of fucking and ditching Jeff, the nineteen year old figure skater. He can’t deny that he’s been flirting with him, letting their relationship grow from sideward glances and accidental touches, but if he’s going to do this, he wants to do this right.

Is he going to do this?

“Yeah, my flight’s tomorrow,” Jeff says, a little sadly, gazing up at Eric through his lashes.

Eric wants to do this, more than anything, not more than he wanted the gold, but holy _hell_ is it a close thing.

“Same here,” he replies, before the music is blaring again and Simple Plan is shouting at them, the other Olympians around them dancing and yelling.

Jeff is so beautiful in the blue light in his Team Canada sweater and that gaze he wears, eyes only on Eric, the rest of the world gone behind him.

“Jeff,” Eric says. He’s doing his best to yell but it’s loud in the venue, and his voice is already hoarse from celebrating gold. “I just… we may never see each other again after this-”

“What?!” Jeff yells back. He cups his ear.

“I’ve had a really good time getting to know you,” Eric says, louder still, leaning back over with his mouth next to Jeff’s ear. “I don’t want to let go of this.” He can’t believe he’s confessing to Jeff like this, barely audible, thousands of bodies surrounding them.

“Eric, I-” Jeff starts. “What are you trying to say? I can’t quite hear you, I don’t want to misunderstand-” his voice shakes.

Eric is _doing_ this.

Eric grasps Jeff firmly by the shoulders, lifts his face back from his ear and kisses Jeff squarely on the mouth, saying with his body what can’t be heard with his mouth, saying it with absolute certainty, saying it in a way that is impossible to misunderstand.

Jeff sinks toward Eric’s body and snakes his arms around Eric’s neck, kissing him back hard, kissing him the way he skates, fast and beautiful and utterly captivating.

Jeff pulls back first, his arms still around Eric’s neck, his eyes wide and pink lips parted.

“You had to kiss me while _Simple Plan_ was playing? You had so many better opportunities!” he laughs, head falling forward to rest against Eric’s chest. It is pretty funny.

“It felt like it was the right moment!” Eric squawks, but he’s laughing too.

“Shut up,” Jeff teases, drawing out the ‘u’ sounds. “Take me outside, kiss me properly, and give me your email address. Or phone number. Dammit, both!”

Eric laughs. “I can do that.”

Eric loses track of how many times they kiss in the cold Vancouver air. There isn’t a single eye on them, the people of the city caught up in their own celebrations to notice. They trade slips of paper with contact information. Jeff whispers promises of teaching Eric some basic jumps and spins and laughs, bright and full, at the mental image.

Eric kisses Jeff in his doorway and twines their fingers together.

When he pulls away, Jeff’s lips are kissed red and his forehead shines with a sheen of sweat. “If I ask you to come in with me, I’m never gonna be able to leave in time for my flight,” he says, breathless.

“Yeah, me too,” Eric says. He leans back on his heels, willing himself to walk away. It shouldn’t be so hard; Jeff’s phone number is in his pocket and Jeff is in his head, in his heart, all over him.

Jeff catches Eric’s medal before he can step backward, pulling Eric back in.

“Next time,” he says, running a thumb over the surface, “it’ll be my turn.” He brings the medal to his lips and kisses it gently before letting it drop back to Eric’s chest. He’s not sure if it’s the weight of the medal falling back onto him or his heart beating that’s making him feel like his ribs are going to crack open.

“I can’t wait,” Eric replies.

**Author's Note:**

> @ God please allow the universe in which Jeff's name is on the Stanley Cup be this one!!
> 
> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr @ raregoose.
> 
> I had fun writing this, despite it taking me 8 million years to finish (I promised myself I'd finish it by the end of my semester, and that... did not happen). I nearly dropped it 6K in, but I was propelled by the power of binging Yuri!!! on Ice and Yuzuru Hanyu reminding me about figure skating and giving me enough energy to finish it.


End file.
